All know of the Caprion Empire. It is a testament to what man and his allies are capable of. What started long ago as a small spark of military might in the verdant plains of the southern shorelines has erupted into a raging wildfire of conquest and domination. In the span of less than 500 years the Caprion Empire has expanded ever farther into the continent and across the great sea.

In the lands to the far north live men and woman of such savagery and such strength that the sun itself weakens in power before them. This is a land choked by frost, where every pine tree streaking towards the clouds does so purely in defiance. Every beast must grow stronger, larger, and more ferocious should it have any hope of survival. This land is called SvellHugr or Rimehart in the imperial tongue. It is a land old in tradition, and rich in natural resources; resources that the Empire is desperate to lay claim to.

The native humes are called the ássungr, and are divided into several large and ancient tribes called ætts. Other indigenous races of Rimehart include the warring clans of dwarves who dwell deep underground and in the mountains. Minotaurs with great shaggy manes of fur maintain a powerful citadel in the north eastern foothills. Nomadic Gnolls both powerful and vicious patrol the grasslands of the southern plains. The swamps and marshes are home to the warm-blooded herklæði, humanoid descendants of the great dragons. The largest forest in the region is home to the Court of Winter Twilight, where Eladrin, wood elves, and other Fae hold court morally ambiguous to the concerns of the other lesser races and the outside world.

In the center of the Rimehart region lays the imperial trade city of Frostburg. Located on the regions only coastal inlet and connected to the southern regions of the continent by the Mistalin River the Empire keeps the city well provisioned, and well protected. Only the bravest, or most fool hardy volunteer for terms of duty in Frostburg, and only the most savvy or desperate merchants attempt to do trade in the region. It’s not that the races of the Empire are hated or shunned by the indigenous people, but the Empire represents something troubling to the natives, something they may yet come to fear: change.

Quick summary:

Rimehart is a mature game setting with a heavy lean towards graphic violence, sex, and gore. It is a realm of Vikings and berserkers, of deadly sword maidens, and tremendous earth shaking monsters. Due to the richness of natural resources, and the powerful warring factions all clamoring for control of them, even the slightest acts can spark conflict or even outright war.

Regional races benefit from being a part of the campaign setting from birth, having ties to the land and its people.

Imperial Races include everything else. They benefit from being strangers in a strange land where a new marvel await around every corner.

Setting:

Take Conan the barbarian and set the whole thing in Skyrim. Simmer with some of the political intrigue and faction warring from game of thrones. Add loads of monsters and crazy magic. You are almost there.

Gameplay mechanics:

Honor System: Every character has 3 to 5 values that define their existence. When you live your life true to those values, whatever they may be, you gain honor, if you do not live true to your values you lose honor. Honor is good and provides tangible rewards in the game. Loss of honor affects your character adversely and thus, is bad.

Scar System: Any character or villain reduced to 0 health receives a scar denoting their wound in battle. Scars are a sign of pride and sometimes of shame in the region of Rimehart. Any character struck by a critical hit has a chance of receiving a scar from that attack.

Adaptive storytelling: Despite the more structured and thus, more limiting gameplay of 4th edition the campaign story will be changed and shaped every week by the actions of the player characters. Nothing is set in stone.

Thunderspire was a bust. Hearing rumors of a lost, tropical continent in the southern seas, Horns of War booked passage on a southbound sailing vessel. After some bribery and subtle coercion we had convinced the captain that an exploratory voyage to this mysterious jungle land would be an excellent idea. Pack your bags gentle readers we are going on a cruise. Drinks with little umbrellas in them, half naked island folk, coconut bikini tops, this would be the best trip ever.

Sadly, adventurers cannot ride on boats without something awful happening to them and this trip would be no different. As an aside, why on earth would any non-suicidal captain even allow adventurers aboard any ship, ever?

Regardless, several weeks, yes, weeks… it takes forever to get anywhere with a stupid boat, teleportation WHERE ART THOU!?!?! Where was I? Yes, several weeks into the journey, the occasional storm, and a dragon turtle sighting later we hit an aqua speed bump. Another ship came into view, under a veil of ocean mist, under the flag of piracy! Aboard this rival vessel was a crew of ninja pirates. (I am not making this up, though they could have been pirate ninjas for all I know). They began a siege against our small, but sturdy ship; ninjas flying through the air, fire, death, bedlam. Just for flavor, a storm rolled in, lightening splitting the sky, illuminating the epic sea battle. Thunder began rolling across waves to shake the burning timbers of the ships. But wait, it gets even better.

A whirlpool began to form at least a dozen ships wide, funneling down, down, down into the inky darkness of the endless sea bottom. Both vessels, heroic and ninja, were now caught in this behemoth spiral! You might want to sit down, because there is more. One after another pillars of sinuous pink flesh each four times as thick as the main mast burst forth from the water surrounding the two ships. Someone yelled (probably Captain Obvious himself), “KRACKEN!” The kracken began savaging the ships, and at that the fight between ninja pirates and Horns of War was a moot point. I found the most authorative looking ninja and told him, “Look, Yoshi Blackbeard, or whatever your name happens to be, we have to work together or we are all squid snacks.”

Nodding his accent we lashed our two ships together, combined sails and skill, dropped all available cargo, including the gun powder barrels (which we blew up in the kracken’s face), and crested the edge of the whirlpool. Daring escape? You know it. But now the chase was on, a chase we were sure to lose, with the kracken jetting after us, there was little hope for our survival. Or was there?

It turned out the ninja pirates lived on a floating island, probably a turtle, I never confirmed this, but on this island was a powerful sea dragon. Well, he was a territorial fellow apparently, because as soon as the Kracken jetted too close the fight was on. Popcorn, peanuts, it was a Godzilla-esque super battle like I had never seen, in fact the two titans fought for HOURS, 7 to be precise, and again I swear to you I am not making this up.

Eventually our deadly towering monster of death was the victor, tired from the battle and its wounds it returned to its lair to rest. Horns of War then paid tribute the beast by donating all their available coinage and gems… and residium… *sigh* Look, it was that or be fed to the dragon. So we celebrated, huge party, 7 days long. Restocked our supplies (hey look at that we are totally broke) checked our heading, mapped the charts, scurvied the dog, shivered a timber, insert more nautical terms here, and two weeks later made landfall on the beaches of the southern continent, who as it turns out was having some trouble with snakes…

Well, I have to admit, Horns of War was a little pissed off. Here they are, rolling up into the remote mountains, delving into the earth to bring some aid and succor to a community in need, and what do they get? A xenophobic, paranoid, power-hungry, fear mongering, barrel of fuckery. Pardon my Elven. So the second in command of the local government is secretly supporting the Blood Klown Klan? Not hard to imagine how this played out. You secretly raise a little rabble, something to scare the common folk, put that fear back in them so they hide under the skirts of local government. Use this propaganda to discredit your rivals, while playing up your strengths. Until, like that baby basilisk you bought at the fair, it grows into a bigger beast than you can handle.

So now the Blood Klowns are operating independently of Anklyar, using the resources he gave them in a campaign to take over all of Thunderspire labyrinth. Good show boys, good show. Sadly for you, there has been a hefty price laid on your heads, and a certain Horns of War reputation dragged through the muck. Killing your leader will not only bag some coin, but more importantly clear our names.

And that, gentle readers is what we did.

Hell have no fury like The Horns of War venting some stress after being betrayed, falsely accused, tried, and nearly imprisoned.

We left a trail of carnage, brains, gore, shattered skulls, frozen flesh, ash, melty bits, and urine stains throughout the Blood Klown Klan’s secret stronghold. Hobgoblin guts mingled freely, with shattered rogue minotaur horns, exploded duergar, and the odd burninated human. If anything, it was racial harmony on a unparralleled scale. When we finally cornered their leader, there was no parley, there was no “talk it out.” We killed his guards, captured him, forced a confession, implemented Anklyar, cleared our names, and clocked out for the day.

The city of Thunderspire then proceeded to fail, in both their level of sorrow at mistaking us for villains, and in the rewarding of bountiful loots and prizes. In fact, they had the nerve to mention needing even more help against a cabal of demon worshipping gnolls, and a tribe of evil minotaurs claiming rights to the city and all lands in the labyrinth. Well, gentle reader, what can I say? Hearing of this further blight upon the fair denizens of Thunderspire, I was moved to action. I turned my beautiful face towards the city leader, highest wizardess of the tower council, locking eyes with her I heroically said,

Herd of Cats was both quick and wise to parley with the Sage of Wind, one of the 4 great spiritual elders to the Gersen Kobold Klan. After betraying his own people to the heroes, and expositioning a fair dump truck of plot, Kertlekrep, once called great one, was allowed to leave the dungeon, his loyalist in tow.

But now what? According to Gwendolyn the gnome the five children managed to escape, but have become lost in the dungeon, and one them, Jurin Threed no less, is held captive by a shadowy beast of evil and flame! And the remaining childrem, as well as Gwen’s surviving friend, are to be put to death, in a grisly sacrifice to empower the kobold king!

Tense.

So the Herd of cats traveled northward eventually defeating the locked door in their pass, they encountered a chamber containing a large metal cauldron, suspended over a dark pit by chains and pulleys. Standing guard over this makeshift elevator was a retinue of kobolds, slingers and skirmishers, led by a Black Scale Hunter. Essentially the ninjas of kobold culture.

i know you scared

The fight had the potential for greatness, but a fat monk getting stuck the cauldron, a poisonous snake in someone’s armor and an extremely modest de-loinclothed kobold slinger contributed to the most embarrassing kobold fight I have ever seen (and that says A LOT). Routed, the Kobold ninja, and accomplices, fled down the elevator shaft to warn their people of encroaching adventurers.

Heading northeast, they encountered a series of narrow tunnels choked with a black ash that made both visibility and movement extremely difficult. So difficult in fact that an overweight dwarf had to make several acrobatics skill checks to squeeze through. There they found a chamber containing this ghastly sight:

"Hi HO Hi HO, into my chain you go!"

the entrance to the room was also guarded by this beauty:

did someone say scooby snacks?

This fight had a little 4e spice thrown into it, and man was it good. The party avoided a complete napalm disaster when Fizzleslicky summoned a celestial badger to distract the hell hound, who was about to fill the narrow, hero packed tunnels, with lava breath. Snickersnack the badger was dead, and the hell hound hiked a leg on the smoldering blue ashes, melting the floor a little.

All the while the chain wrapped, undead dwarf continued to hammer away at a glowing metal link, a link possibly sealing the soul of young Jurin Threed, into the beast’s chain forever. Kevalis clanked forth to taunt and do battle with the hell hound, while Zazzamook shifted around for the flank. F’hal set loose a burst of holy energy, healing the party and damaging the Dead Smith. His hammering abated, the undead began to survey the room with its dead eyes. Sophie, concealed in darkness took her shot burying an arrow into the creature’s writhing chains, and drawing its ire.

The hell hound then loosed its fiery plasma breath on more than half of the party, all of whom avoided the full force of the blast. The Dark Smith moved towards Sophie, leisurely tossing its hammer and catching it, slowly, until it was upon her. With a resonating crunch the hammer blow came and Sophie’s left knee was shattered. Bone splintered and blood spouted as Sophie lay prone at the creature’s chain wrapped feet. It raised its hammer for the killing blow…

Fizzleslicky summoned a fiendish hawk which flew into the face of the Dark Smith, while Kevalis strode forward to engage both the Smith and his Hound at once. Seizing the opportunity, Zazzamook, shifted over to the anvil and grabbed the burning chain with both hands, ignoring the scalding burns from the chain and summoning every once of strength available (and I mean every once) the monk broke the half-forged link in twain. A dull pulse was emitted from the sundered link, which stunned the Dark Smith where he stood, dropping him to his knees.

The hell hound turned on Zazzamook delivering two deadly bites and dropping the nearly dead monk to the cavern floor. Kevalis began bashing and stabbing into the beast taking advantage of its weakened state. Sophie stood shakily on her broken leg took careful aim and fired over and over again into the Dark Smith’s stunned face. With a shudder his head collapsed in like a rotten pumpkin and his physical form melted away. All that remained were his hammer and his chain. The hell hound, its master slain, returned to its plane of origin.